Slammed Doors
by Aurorax
Summary: Wyldon reflects on his biggest mistake and the girl he might never see again. A missing scene from Lady Knight, written for SMACKDOWN at fiefgoldenlake dot proboards dot com.


Written for SMACKDOWN Team Wyldon at fiefgoldenlake dot proboards dot com.

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The door to Wyldon's office slammed hard, a deafening note of finality that rang through the air, echoing over and over his failure. The Knight Commander of the King's Own was not one to express his anger in petty gestures, but the girl had been close to him in a way that Wyldon couldn't understand. It wasn't love, despite what the gossips claimed- Raoul might have been a progressive, but he was a good honest man, steady, who would never dream of taking advantage of a girl under his power even if he hadn't been so obviously infatuated with the fierce and fiery Rider Commander. No, Raoul loved Kel like she was his own daughter, and the pain in his face as he stood shouting helplessly had been more than unbearable.

Wyldon cursed himself silently; he would have bourn all Raoul's anger and more, if it could ease the man's pain in any way, but they both knew that that was impossible. He wondered if it would ease the guilt at all, to try to make her knightmaster understand that it hadn't just been some silly preoccupation- to try and express how much he cared, how much he felt- but there were some things that just couldn't be put into words. She was gone, gone to a place where he couldn't follow her, and she would never come back. Not from this place, no, because no matter how great she was- likely the best he had ever trained, he could finally admit that now; certainly the strongest, the most determined- it wasn't men she was fighting, but death itself, and some battles were reserved for the gods alone. So Wyldon bowed his head, and he remembered.

_The smell of charred flesh was almost overpowering, even to an old soldier like himself who had long lost count of the number of graves he had dug over the years. He paused before every door, holding his breath for a moment in a silent prayer, allowing himself one second of the hesitation that was so foreign to his actions before revealing the destruction that lay hidden. A body, maybe two- too many, of course, but also not nearly enough. Each door could be the one, that which opened to reveal the hundreds of corpses that were hauntingly absent; by now he had given up any hope of large numbers of survivors, since the rescue teams had been searching long enough to clearly mark themselves as friends. But he opened them, one after another, and still they were missing, the refugees whose strength he had admired but never fully appreciated until now, when he looked upon the killing devices ensnared in crude nets and the corpses of enemies slain with kitchen knives._

_They were gone- that was the only answer. He started back towards headquarters, wondering how the girl would take it. She had done her instructors proud, taking the necessary steps with her unfailing calm, but fury burned behind her eyes with an intensity that scared him. He knew her well, enough to see that she would be overwhelmed with guilt; enough to know that she would do her duty, regardless, because it was her duty and because it was her people. He had always disliked Keladry's ability to disguise her feelings, for many reasons. It made her harder to read, harder to criticize, and like an unspoken challenge it asked to be broken through. He knew what a struggle it was, for the girl to hold on to that blankness through all the prejudice and injustice, yet she had done it, and he had hated her for her resolve. So many times he had wished for her to show something, a spark of anger, or defiance, or annoyance, because it would have meant he had won, and somehow he had found himself lowered to the level of playing games with children; but now he had finally seen something, and it was pain so intense that he could only pray for the smooth emptiness once again. Because emptiness wasn't right, though he knew not what other word to use in its place- Keladry felt, stronger than anyone he had ever known, and at that moment the intensity of her anger threatened to overwhelm them all._

_A flash of light upon steel, and his sword was drawn in the space of a breath, anxiety and anticipation having already set his nerves on edge. But it was not an enemy soldier, just a meddling Stormwing, and he was already turning back when he caught sight of her. It made him pause for a moment, to see how she was handling everything, and he wondered for a second where the concern had come from. But he was right to look after her; he would be concerned about any young knight who had lost their first men under his command, and she was as green as they came. Still, there was something about her contained ferocity, the burning eyes and the drop of vivid blood where she had bitten through her lip in anger, that became an image etched in fire, inescapably visible even when he closed his eyes._

_The Stormwing's harsh voice filled his ears, cruel and mocking, and Wyldon felt his fists clench in anger. The creature had no right to speak to Keladry that way, not when she seemed to be barely holding on as it was. They were speaking about something, the enemy dead- if only there were a few more Scanrans to feed to the beasts, but it seemed as if the enemy forces had barely exerted themselves. They had the killing devices, and the refugees had been poorly armed from the start. He had known that, and he had done nothing. And now they were gone, those who weren't already dead. _

_Keladry's voice reached his ears, full of incredulity even in her shocked state. It took him a moment to realize what she was so appalled by; the enemy soldiers deserved nothing better than to be given to the Stormwings, and would have deserved worse if any such fate could be imagined. But if anyone was going to see the enemy as individuals rather than a whole, individuals sent to die far from home for a king they didn't trust and a wealth they wouldn't share, it was her. And in that moment, seeing the horror in her face as she lost a bit more of her innocence, all he could imagine was taking her into his arms and protecting her from all the evils of the world. Suddenly the idealism that he had scorned seemed something beautiful, as delicate and precious as a moth's wings, so easy to crush. He wanted to tell her that not everyone was that callous, that cruel. But she didn't need his protection; she stood up and marched towards headquarters, gazing straight ahead, knowing that it was just another in a serious of wounds she would suffer, not the worst and not the last. It was overwhelming, the strength of his feelings, and unacceptable in a married man, but as much as he hated himself, he couldn't forget. She was Keladry, the Lady Knight who was proving every day that she was tough enough to survive on her own, and he wanted her._

When he had met her again, the feelings he had nearly forgotten- or so he had told himself, he who had a wife he loved and four daughters near grown, of which Keladry was young enough to be one herself- had surged to the surface again. There was that same fire, the same passionate emotion that had been hidden so long, filling her eyes with a fierce light as she protested his orders. He loved her for her stubbornness, her devotion to her duty and to the Code, for the way her chin jutted out when she argued and for the sheer power of her feelings. And yet he had hated himself for loving her. It was a distraction he couldn't afford, not when so many lives depended on his passionless reasoning, and giving in to her would have been giving in to his feelings, allowing his emotions to interfere. So he had snapped, the too-harsh orders being spoken before he had a moment to think, he who knew her so well, and then he was gone, anxious only to get out of her sight, back to where his brain wasn't filled with tumultuous contradictions like colliding thunderheads.

It was done now, and nothing could take it back. Not Raoul's love for her, nor his own; even the burning guilt that was stronger than anything he'd ever felt was a helpless emotion, doing nothing but leaving him breathless, entranced in memories, the same scene playing again and again. Yes, there were some things that just couldn't be put into words, and this was one of them. So Wyldon just sat, listening to the echo of the slammed door as it reverberated like funeral bells in his mind, and asked the Gods to look after the girl that was the best of any of them.


End file.
